


two minutes

by hanthelibrarian



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Emotions, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, just a teensy bit, the boys talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28375884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanthelibrarian/pseuds/hanthelibrarian
Summary: “If life could give me one blessing, it’d be to take you off my hands.”If that had been the only time that Geralt had pushed him away, he’d have chalked it up to a bad mood, especially given what had happened between the witcher and Yennefer. Except, Jaskier told himself for what must be the hundredth time, it hadn’t only been this singular incident. Geralt had been pushing him away from the start, ever since they had met in that tavern in Posada. Who was he, a silly bard, to deny the witcher what he truly sought: silence and solitude.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 268





	1. sweet nothings are screamed (not spoken)

**Author's Note:**

> before you come at me saying "Geralt wouldn't talk this much!":
> 
> I'm basing his characterization off of the books, video games, and the show, all of which show he is capable of talking this much, especially when it is needed (which in this case it is).
> 
> aside from that, enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt had finally pushed him away, broken the last straw that was holding Jaskier bound to him. Now what was the bard to do?

Dusk was starting to settle in and Jaskier was still working his way down the damn mountain. He’d have made more progress but it’s hard to see tree roots and stones when your eyes are full of tears. It hadn’t been long since he was at the mountaintop, chest filled with the most hope he’d felt in a while, only for it to be crushed with a few words: “ _If life could give me one blessing, it’d be to take you off my hands.”_

If that had been the only time that Geralt had pushed him away, he’d have chalked it up to a bad mood, especially given what had happened between the witcher and Yennefer. Except, Jaskier told himself for what must be the hundredth time, it hadn’t only been this singular incident. Geralt had been pushing him away from the start, ever since they had met in that tavern in Posada. Who was he, a silly bard, to deny the witcher what he truly sought: silence and solitude.

“He’s wanted me gone since we first met,” Jaskier muttered to himself, stepping cautiously around an outcropping of rocks. “I was just too foolish to accept it.”

  
A sound from behind him caused Jaskier to pause. “Geralt? Are you-“ A rabbit bounded out of a nearby bush and across the rocky path and Jaskier choked back a tearful laugh. “Of course not, you’re probably off brooding; it’s what you do best.” The memory of their first meeting came back to him and Jaskier allowed himself to wistfully gaze up the path toward the mountaintop but only for a moment before he turned to continue his journey. 

_\---6 months later---_

He stopped singing. He’d still play Filavandrel’s lute, of course; he had to earn coin somehow. But the requests for _Toss a Coin_ and other witcher-themed songs were too painful for him to perform. _A filling-less pie_ , he would think each time he opened his mouth to sing. And it’s for these reasons that he stopped singing altogether. If anyone were to ask, he’d say that he was waiting for a beautiful lady to ignite in him the flame that only a muse could provide. He couldn’t very well tell the drunken tavern-goers that he was too hung-up on a certain white-haired, magic-y man who had tossed him aside like a rotten head of lettuce. They’d laugh him out of every town he stepped foot in… or worse. 

He’d thought about trying to find the witcher (it was only _the witcher_ now; he couldn’t bear to even think of his name) but decided that life was too short for him to keep torturing himself like this. Visions of his adventures with _the witcher_ danced across his mind as he laid in bed next to his latest would-be muse. Almost as if in response to his tensed body, she rolled away and the chill that accompanied the move pushed Jaskier out of the bed. He had tried drowning his thoughts and feelings in wine, women, and food but it had done him no good. Those eyes, dripping sweet honey in his dreams, haunted him no matter how drunk, satiated, or full he was. So he kept moving, never staying in one place long enough to adjust. This night, he slipped out before the moon even started setting. He felt a twinge of regret as he watched the blonde slumber in his- their- _her_ bed. He knew how it felt to wake up and find that you are alone when only mere hours ago you had the warmth of another body near yours. He tucked the girl in and stole out of the room after leaving a light kiss on her forehead.  
  


A blast of cold wind greeted him as he opened the door to the tavern. Winter had started to set in which meant that Jaskier would need to make a tough choice: live on the road, relying on the ‘generosity’ of tavern-goers or make his way to Oxenfurt. If he left within the week, he’d make it by the full on-set of winter. Maybe. Not for the first time, he thought of Roach and how she could make the journey to wherever he ended up much shorter. _What a wonderful creature; too bad her master’s a.._. Sighing, he adjusted the pack on his shoulder and trudged forward into the dark.

It was about two hours after leaving the town, the sun still hiding beneath the horizon, that Jaskier saw the faint light of a campfire not too far from the road. The rational part of his mind told him to stay away but he had never been a rational person and so he slowly made his way toward the light. As he drew near the clearing where the campfire burned, he noticed a horse; not just any horse, but a familiar horse.

“No,” he whispered, “it can’t be.” He thought about turning back but the promise of warmth and safety overpowered his pride and fear of who must surely be lying near the flames. Jaskier cautiously made his way over to Roach, murmuring a greeting to his old friend to keep from startling her. _No sign of the witcher, at least_ , he thought as he pat Roach on the neck. He found himself relaxing and turning to scan the area around the fire for the bulky man he’d been actively avoiding for the past half-year when he heard a grunt from behind him. Close behind him.

“Good gods!” he shouted as he nearly jumped on top of Roach. Ger- _The witcher_ stood right behind him, a small smirk gracing his handsome features. Jaskier found himself staring, dumbfounded, as the witcher moved to clasp his shoulder. The large hand pulled back suddenly, as if burnt, as the witcher sniffed the air. _Fear_ , Jaskier thought, _he must smell it on me._ The pained look on the witcher’s face nearly, _nearly_ made Jaskier feel bad for him but, no, he’s the one who started this. “Still enjoying the silence, I see,” Jaskier spat out with an air of confidence that was contradicted by the shaking in his whole being.

Despite his shaking, Jaskier’s words hit home and he could see the witcher wince. It was subtle but he’d learned to read the minute expressions that flickered across the scarred face. “I had thought you were hunting some monster and I could steal a few moments with Roach, otherwise I’d have avoided you, _just like you asked_ ,” Jaskier lied, gritting the words out between tight lips and grinding teeth. He could feel the hurt from that long-ago afternoon on the mountaintop bubbling behind his teeth and he ground them even harder to keep from letting it spill out in a litany of apologies, begging, and sobs. It was this that finally elicits a reply from the witcher.

“It’s cold,” the witcher stated matter-of-factly. Jaskier failed at holding back a laugh. Scarred eyebrows knitted themselves together at the sound. “Stay.”

_I’ve felt a great deal of pain throughout my life and my travels,_ Jaskier thought as he reluctantly followed the witcher to the lone bedroll spread out on the ground. _But this, this is the worst. Having him so close and yet so far._

The two, although estranged for half a year, resumed their old routine for cold-weather arrangements: Jaskier laid out under the cover of the bedroll with the witcher curled around him, his calloused hand resting in the hollow of his hip. It was like this that Jaskier fell asleep and, even though he had tried not to hope, he was still crushed when he woke up in the bedroll, alone.


	2. give me two damn minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeing the Witcher again has upset Jaskier's carefully balanced emotions. If he is not meant to speak, meant to give the Witcher the peace and quiet he so longed for, how is he to deal with these fraying tendrils of feelings?

Alone. Again. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep the tears from flowing because he was  _ done _ crying over that damned witcher, thank you very much. He rolled onto his back, eyes still shut, steeling himself to sit up and look around the empty campsite when he heard a faint whinny.  _ Roach?,  _ he thought. The next thing he noticed is the smell of meat cooking. He sat up abruptly, eyes now open and scanning the definitely-not-empty campsite. Sitting by the fire, with the light from the rising sun reflecting off of his white hair, was the witcher. A small noise escaped from Jaskier’s open mouth, incredulous at the sight. His former companion turned to look at him with what Jaskier tried to tell himself was most definitely not a small smile on his lips.

“You okay?” The slight gruffness in the witcher’s voice startles him; he hadn’t heard that morning roughness in so long. When he didn’t answer right away, his former friend stood up as if to come check on him. Before he could even take a step, however, Jaskier stopped him with a wave of his hand, shaky with all the feelings that had built up over the last six months.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, voice wavering, which did not help his case. The witcher raised an eyebrow and tried to take another step but Jaskier stopped him again, his voice stronger with false confidence he conjured up from somewhere: “Give me two damn minutes and I’ll be fine.”

The strength of his voice must have shocked the witcher because he just stood there, gaping at Jaskier before turning back to the meat sizzling over the fire. He sat down with his back to the bard, who used this time as a chance to collect himself and, much to his chagrin, soak up the sight of the witcher in the morning light. It had been so long since he had seen the monster hunter and, even though he knew he would regret this encounter in the future, he couldn’t find it in himself to move, to leave. Staying much longer would only cause him more pain but he needed just a few more minutes. He wanted to watch the light rise and fall of the witcher’s shoulders as he breathed, proof that he was alive and well. He wanted to hear the low hums the man made as he turned the rabbit over the fire, noises that Jaskier had replayed in his head every day since their parting. 

Caught up in his staring, he hadn’t registered that the witcher had turned to face him until he saw the man’s lips move, speaking so softly that he can’t hear the words. The look on his face must have shown his confusion as the witcher got up and approached him, ignoring Jaskier’s protests.

“Breakfast,” the witcher murmured, voice too damn soft for Jaskier’s poor heart. Only after the man spoke did the bard notice that he was holding out a good-sized portion of the rabbit he had been cooking. Nodding his thanks, Jaskier took the meat and held it in his hands contemplatively before taking a bite.

They sat in silence as they shared their first meal in half a year, the only sounds were the birds in the forest and Roach’s tail swishing back and forth softly. Every so often, the witcher looked up, eyes burning holes into Jaskier’s chest, making him increasingly uncomfortable, before looking away. Perhaps he wanted to say something but he’d have to do it on his own. Jaskier was not going to poke around when all he wanted to do was get away from the awkwardness and back on the road.

“Well,” Jaskier said with false cheerfulness, “I really should be going. Wouldn’t want to burden you any further with my presence.”

The witcher looked at him with what looked like sadness (but Jaskier blamed it on indigestion) in his eyes. At first, Jaskier thought that the man would stop him from leaving but all he did was press a pack into his hands. “To keep you safe,” the monster hunter explained before turning to pack up the bedroll and climb onto Roach.

Jaskier was left standing in the clearing, mind reeling from all of the mixed signals he received in the past few hours. The pack sat heavy in his hands as he struggled to collect all of the pieces of himself that he had oh so carefully restacked after their last parting. It would take him a long time to readjust after this chance encounter but, loath as he was to admit, Jaskier was glad that he had stumbled across the witcher, if only to see that he was still alive.

Time and time again, the two would almost run into each other but the moment that Jaskier heard there was a witcher in the area, he’d hitch a ride on the next wagon heading out of town. Soon, he reached Oxenfurt and felt, for the first time in nearly a year, safe from the witcher’s near constant presence.

It was three months after the time at the clearing when the two met again, this time on the streets of Oxenfurt, where Jaskier had decided to spend the winter. After their parting in the clearing, Jaskier had chosen to ignore the encounter completely, chalking the entire thing up to random chance which, quite frankly, wasn’t worth mulling over. There were times, however, that Jaskier thought back to the way that the witcher’s hair had gleamed in the sunlight, looking far too attractive for someone who had hurt him so badly. When they met again in Oxenfurt, the man’s hair was covered in thick grime, the blood and guts of some monster that he had recently slain. Either out of habit or out of pity, Jaskier didn’t know which, the bard invited the witcher to spend the night in his room at the local inn where a hot bath was ready and waiting.

Neither of them spoke as they traveled to the inn, at least not to each other. Jaskier struck up a conversation with Roach, going on and on about what he had been up to, but abruptly stopped as he noticed that the witcher was looking at him. The memory of each time that the man had told him to shut up came to the forefront of his mind and his voice tapered off, cheeks heating up in embarrassment and frustration. Before he could comment on the look, they found themselves in front of the inn. It was an establishment of decent quality whose owner most likely wouldn’t let someone such as the witcher within its walls but Jaskier was on good terms with the owner, seeing as how he had been bringing business in, even without his singing.

“Dandelion, my good man,” the innkeeper bellowed from behind the bar. “Your bath is drawn and waiting for yo-“ The short, pudgy man cut himself off with a gasp. Anyone who had heard Jaskier’s songs would recognize the White Wolf, the witcher, but they hadn’t recognized Jaskier. Because of his desire to avoid any talk of the witcher, he had adopted the moniker Dandelion as well as a new, duller wardrobe to go with his new act of simple instrumentals. Now that the innkeeper had seen him with the witcher, a look of realization came across his face. “You’re the witcher’s bard! Why in the devil’s name did you not tell us, boy?”

A wince flitted across Jaskier’s face before he chuckled emptily. “I wanted to simply observe the goings-on in town here.” He inclined his head toward the witcher, shrugging. “Besides, with the legend of him hanging around me, I’d be too busy entertaining everyone that I wouldn’t be able to have any time to enjoy your hospitality.”

The exchange between the two men had the witcher giving Jaskier a look, eyebrows raised and an amused glint in his eyes. “If it’s alright with you, my friend,” the witcher said, voice barely raised above a whisper, “we should keep moving before the townsfolk drag you away to hear your tales.”

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier headed towards the stairs but not before telling the innkeeper that he would appreciate it if he kept his identity their little secret. Despite the innkeeper’s promises, the bard knew that the news would be all across Oxenfurt before the witcher had finished his bath.  _ I’ll never have peace,  _ Jaskier thought as he opened the door to his room, allowing his temporary companion to enter first.

“There are soaps, oils, and salts on the shelf behind the tub,” he said, pointing toward the far wall where the tub sits. “Feel free to use them to your heart’s content.”

The low ‘hmm’ that escaped the witcher’s lips as he approached the tub as he undressed threatened to unravel all of Jaskier’s self-control. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself if he ran into the witcher again but he was coming close to simply grabbing the mutant by his moonlight hair and pouring out all of his feelings. He would shout and cry, pound his fists against the man’s firm chest. He’d avoid looking at his eyes, though; he wasn’t a fool. He knew how weak he was against the witcher’s honey-filled eyes.

The sound of the witcher clearing his throat pulled Jaskier out of his thoughts and back to the room where the man he had just been daydreaming about was sitting in the bath, hair dripping with warm water. “Are you okay?”

“Give me two damn minutes and I’ll be fine.” The words, harsh and cold, left the bard’s mouth before he could stop them. He wished to avoid a confrontation as he wasn’t sure if he was ready to hear the witcher refuse to apologize or, even worse, repeat the words he had shouted on that mountaintop.

“You said that last time and you aren’t fine. Talk to me,” the witcher said as he gripped the bar of soap, his eyes, those damn eyes, never moving from the bard’s face. 

Again, Jaskier spoke without thinking, too full of frustration and hurt. “Oh, so  _ now _ you’re fine with me talking.” As if he had slapped him, the witcher turned away, face slipping into a neutral expression. And then came the words that Jaskier had thought he would never hear.

“I’m sorry.”

It took a few seconds for the words to register and when they did, Jaskier began howling with laughter. Taken aback, the witcher moved as if to stand up but, upon seeing the tears streaming down the bard’s face, decided against it.

“Y-you’re sorry? That’s possibly the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,” Jaskier coughed out between laughs that soon devolved into quiet sobs. “You couldn’t have been  _ sorry _ nine months ago?”

This time, the witcher did stand up from the bath, quickly wrapping a towel around himself. He carefully crouched in front of where the bard was sitting on the bed, hands resting on his thighs. Jaskier couldn't stop himself from blurting out everything he’d been wanting to tell the witcher since their fight.

“Coming down that mountain, every time I heard a noise, I’d turn around,” he gasped out, “hoping it was you coming to apologize. To tell me that you didn’t mean it.” Jaskier raked his hands down his face, wiping his tears across his cheeks. “The further I got, the more foolish I felt. And then, over the months that I  _ waited for you  _ in that damn village by the mountain, I kept thinking:  _ if I’m good, will you come back? _ ” Choking back tears, Jaskier finally looked into the piercing yellow eyes and whispered, “You didn’t.”

The witcher only nodded, letting the bard speak his piece. When he finally got a chance to speak, he paused. “Jaskier, I-“ His voice was weak and rough, the raw emotion surprising the bard. “I do not deserve your forgiveness and yet here I am, begging for it.” The witcher cleared his throat before continuing. “It took me a long time to accept that you were truly hurt by what I said. I thought,” he said, looking in Jaskier’s reddened eyes, “that you would come back like every other time. It was only then that I realized how terribly I’ve treated you over these years.”

“I couldn’t, Geralt” Jaskier whispered, his tongue stumbling over the name that had become foreign to him in the past nine months. “You had pushed me away so many times that I thought it was time for me to finally listen and stay away.” He reached out to touch his friend’s face. “I can only endure so much pain before not even love can keep me around.” 

At the mention of love, Geralt took Jaskier’s hands in his, squeezing them lightly. The bard wasn’t even remotely embarrassed about his confession; he hadn’t exactly been subtle about his affections toward the witcher. Everyone who heard his songs or saw them together knew how he felt. Airing his feelings out in the open was like being able to stretch after a many years’ long confinement. 

“Jas, I’d like to work on things with you, slowly.” Geralt sighed as he drew Jaskier closer. “I had never wanted to need anyone or to have anyone need me but it wasn’t long after we met that I knew, I _ knew  _ that I would find myself needing you.” A scarred hand cupped the bard’s cheek as the witcher breathed out slowly, lips scruffy with a three-day-old beard. “After everything that had happened that day, I was frustrated with myself, with  _ destiny _ , with the world. I wanted to push away everything and everyone that had ever come close and-“

“And you chose the words you knew would hurt me the most. The words you knew would push me away for good,” Jaskier finished for him. Geralt nodded and looked down, hand still resting on the bard’s cheek.

“You are a blessing in my life, Jaskier, not a burden.” Geralt murmured, voice low and husky. “If you would agree to it, I ask that you bless my life once again.”

It is everything that Jaskier had wanted to hear for so long and yet he knew that he could not accept. Despite knowing how hard this was for the witcher, someone who let his actions speak for him, he had already hurt too much watching Geralt traipse around, getting tangled in love affairs with powerful witches, nearly killing himself at every turn. He can no longer simply be a friend, a companion to him. It hurt more than anything in the world, more than their fight, more than turning away from him that day, when Jaskier said, “I can’t.”


	3. and I'll be fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He said 'no'. He stood up for himself. But is that what he really wants?

Geralt was quite good at masking his emotions but upon hearing Jaskier reject him, his face was an open book. First, shock which was quickly replaced by pain. A few short moments later, deep resignation settled on his features as he let go of the bard’s hands. It crushed Jaskier to see these emotions playing across the witcher’s face and he instantly regretted his words.

“What I mean to say is…” But Geralt cut him off before he could finish.

“It’s alright, Jaskier,” the witcher said softly, “I understand.”

Now the bard had put up with a lot of shit from Geralt but his least favorite was being interrupted. 

“No, you  _ dolt _ ,” Jaskier hissed, the anger from earlier returning and nearly bubbling over in his chest. “You don’t understand because you won’t let me speak!” He stood up, pushing Geralt away from him. “I cannot  _ bless _ your life again because we want different things from each other.” Geralt opened his mouth as if to speak and Jaskier clamped a hand right over it, eyes inches away from the ones that had haunted his dreams for the better part of a year. “I am not willing to let myself be hurt time and time again while you- you traipse around, waiting for Yennefer to cross your path again.”

The witcher’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the sorceress.  _ Of course his attention is piqued when I mention her _ , Jaskier thought. The bard moved his hand from his companion’s mouth but gave him a look that stopped the witcher from speaking.

“And you know what else, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, hands thrown in the air as he began pacing around the room. “You were so focused on her for the past _decade_ that you couldn’t even see what was right in front of you.” The bard stopped pacing and whirled on his heels to face his friend. “Me. _I_ was right in front of you. _My feelings_ _for you_ were plain as day and yet you couldn’t see past the sexy, scary witch!”

He’d finally said it. He’d finally told Geralt how he felt or at least that he felt something for him. And now, he just had to wait for the inevitable rejection, for the witcher to turn away from him in disgust. But it never came.

“I know, Jas,” Geralt said, slowly moving closer to the bard. “I’ve known for a while how you feel and I-“ His voice broke here, emotion from the emotionless monster. “I still treated you the way I did.” 

This admission nearly knocked Jaskier to the ground. All this time, he knew and did nothing. That was his answer then. Nothing. A solitary tear ran down the bard’s face as he swallowed back a laugh. “You knew and yet-“ He cut himself off before he could make an even bigger fool out of himself.

“I was  _ scared _ , Jaskier,” Geralt grit out. “That isn’t something that I feel often.” The witcher came even closer to his friend, close enough to wipe the tear from his face, although he didn’t for fear of pushing the bard even further from him. “I was scared because of what I was beginning to feel for you.”

If Jaskier was shocked before, he was reeling now. A witcher scared of his feelings? Geralt scared of what he was feeling for him? The bard couldn’t speak, his mind finally devoid of any words. He quickly overcame his temporary lack of words and simply whispered these into the witcher’s chest as he raised his hands to his teary eyes: “But Yennefer…”

“Was real, at first. Then she just became me trying to avoid having to come to terms with how I feel for you,” Geralt finished for him and this time Jaskier didn’t mind. “I thought that if I could find some kind of normalcy, as normal as a witcher can be, that the feelings would go away. When they didn’t, I pushed  _ you _ away.” The witcher, looking ashamed, softly pulled Jaskier’s hands from his face, his honey-filled eyes shimmering with emotion. “Everyone I care about is in danger simply because of what I am and I didn’t want to be the reason you were hurt but now I see that all I ever did was hurt you.”

“You did more than that, my dear,” Jaskier whispered. “You broke my heart, time and time again. And now, knowing that you knew…” The bard stopped himself before his voice could break. He cleared his throat and looked into Geralt’s cat-like eyes. “How can I trust you after all of that?”

At the mention of trust, Geralt’s grip on the bard’s hands tightened. “I don’t know.” 

Some time passed, whether it was minutes or hours, Jaskier didn’t know, and the only sound in the room was their breathing, heavy and full of hesitation. Neither said a word as the witcher lowered his gaze to their joined hands, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, something that Jaskier had never seen him do before, something that broke him inside. He had been hurt, yes, but now Geralt was the one hurting and he was too weak for him. He knew that he would always trust his witcher, with his life and with his heart.

“I cannot keep you from her, I know. Not after your wish but,” he said, voice wavering with uncertainty and a hint of fear, “I need your word that you two are done. No ‘one last time’, no ‘for old time’s sake’. I need you to choose  _ me _ .”

The silence that followed scared Jaskier more than any monster could. A striga could break down the door to their room and he would welcome it. He’d welcome anything to get away from this. He was about to scramble away, quickly before the witcher could tighten his grip any more, but a soft whisper stopped him.

“Now and forever, I am yours.” Geralt pulled Jaskier to his chest, their faces so close that the bard could see his friend’s pupil dilating slowly, becoming more cat-like. “Ever since the mountaintop, I’ve felt like I was a wraith, floating through life, and the only thing tying me to this world was the thought of seeing you one more time.” He lowered his eyes to Jaskier’s lips for a brief moment before meeting his eyes again. “I never want to lose you again.”

That was all Jaskier needed to hear to give him the courage to do something that he had dreamt about since their first meeting in Posada. He surged forward and kissed the witcher, hands tangling in his white hair. He felt Geralt kiss him back, hands slipping down to hold him by the waist. The room felt like it was spinning and Jaskier had to pull away to get a breath of air. The smile on Geralt’s face was so bright that he was almost sorry to cover it with his own. 

“What does this mean for us?,” Jaskier breathed out in between deep and seemingly never-ending kisses. “For me? For  _ you _ ?”

Geralt’s hand was a solid reminder that he was here, he was holding him, he was never letting him go. His voice, as he spoke so gently in Jaskier’s ear, grounded him in this moment. “I will have you any way let you me, for as long as you let me.”

Jaskier caressed Geralt’s scarred cheek with his soft, string-calloused fingers before drawing him in for one more kiss. As his lips rested on Geralt’s, their textures differing as much as their personalities, he murmured, “Well, we’d better get started because I have some very fine ideas for the ways I’ll have you. Starting with...”

The bard and his witcher spent the rest of that evening discovering just a few of the ways that Jaskier would have Geralt. The rest of the ways, they decided, would have to wait for the next day and perhaps the day after that. They had quite a few years to make up for.


End file.
